The Aïssaoua In Paris

Give me your consolation, noble friends;
The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb.
A burning fire consumes my aching breast;
I am undone. Alas! O cruel fate!
My heart's with slim Hyzyya in the grave.

Alas! we were so happy a short while
Ago, just like the prairie flow'rs in spring;
How sweet to us was life in those dear days!
Now like a phantom's shadow she has gone,
That young gazelle, of utter loveliness.
Removed by stern, inevitable fate.

When she walked forth, not looking right or left,
My beauteous loved one rendered fools the wise.
Impressed thus was the great bey of the camp.
A gleaming poniard rested in his belt.
He went hemmed in by soldiers and a horde
Of horsemen, glad to follow where he led.
All haste to bring him costly gifts. He bore
A sabre of the Ind, and with one stroke
He cleaved a bar of iron, split a rock.
How many rebels fell beneath his blow!
Haughty and proud, he challenged all who came.
Enough now we have glorified the bey.
Speak, singer, in a song that's sweet and new,
The praises of the dainty girl I loved,
The daughter of good Ahmed ben el Bey.

Give me your consolation, noble friends;
The queen of beauties sleeps within the tomb.
A burning fire consumes my aching breast;
I am undone! Alas! O cruel fate!

She lets her tresses flow in all the breeze,
Exhaling sweet perfume. Thy brows are arched
In beauty's curve. Thy glance is like a ball
Shot from a Christian's gun, which hits the mark.
Thy cheek is lovely as the morning rose
Or bright carnation, and thy ruby blood
Gives it the shining brightness of the sun.
Thy teeth are ivory-white, and thy warm kiss
Is sweet as milk or honey loved by all.
Oh, see that neck, more white than palm-tree's heart,
That sheath of crystal, bound with bands of gold.
Thy chest is marble, and thy tender breasts
Are apples whose sweet scent makes well the ill.
Thy body is, like paper, shining, white,
Or cotton or fine linen, or, again,
Just like the snow that falls in a dark night.
Hyzyya lets her sash hang gracefully,
Down-falling to the earth, in fold on fold.
Her fine limbs jingle with gems she wears.
Her slippers clink with coupled rings of gold.

We were encamped at Bazer. Every day
At dawn I saw the beauty, and we were
So glad together! Every dawn I brought
My wishes to my love and followed fate
More happy than if I alone possessed
All riches and all treasures of the earth.
Wealth equals not the tinkle of her gems.
When I had crossed the mountain there I met
Hyzyya, and she walked amid the fields
With every grace, and made her bracelets ring.
My reason wandered, heart and head were vexed.

After a happy summer passed at Tell,
We came, my dearest one and I, Sahara-ward.

The litters now are closed, the powder sounds.
My gray horse to Hyzyya bears me swift.
The palanquin of my coquette's on route.
At Azal when night comes we pitch our tents.
Sydy-l-Ahsen is before us now:
Ez-Zerga, too. Then faring on we go
To Sydy Sayd, and Elmetkeouk,
And Medoukal-of-palms, where we arrive
At eventide. We saddle up at dawn,
Just when the breeze begins. Our halting-place,
Sydy Mehammed, decks this peaceful earth.
From there the litters seek El Mekheraf.
My charger gray straight as an eagle goes.
I wend to Ben Seryer with my love,
Of tattooed arms. When we had crossed Djedy
We passed the wide plain, and we spent the night
At Rous-et-toual, near the gleaming sands.
Ben Djellal was our next day's resting-place;
And, leaving there, I camped at El Besbas,
And last at El-Herymek, with my love.

How many festivals beheld us then!
In the arena my good steed of gray
Fled like a ghost. And sweet Hyzyya there,
Tall as a flagstaff, bent her gaze on me,
Her smile disclosing teeth of purest pearl.
She spoke but in allusions, causing thus
That I should understand whate'er she meant.
Hamyda's daughter then might be compared
Unto the morning-star or a tall palm,
Alone, erect among the other trees.
The wind uprooted it, and dashed it down.
I did not look to see it fall, this tree
I hoped forever to protect. I thought
That God, divinely good, would let it live.
But God, the Master, dashed it to the earth.

I take up now my song. We made but one
Encampment, at Oned Itel. 'Twas there
My friend, the queen of damsels, said farewell.
'Twas in the night she paid the debt of death.
'Twas there my dark-eyed beauty passed away.
She pressed her heart to mine and, sighing, died.
My cheeks were flooded with a sea of tears.
I thought to lose my reason. I went forth
And wandered through the fields, ravines, and hills.
She bore my soul away, my black-eyed love.
The daughter of a noble race. Alas!
She still increased the burnings of my heart.

They wrapped her in a shroud, my noble love.
The fever took me, burning up my brain.
They placed her on a bier, all decked with gems.
And I was in a stupor, dull to see
All that was passing on that dreadful day.
They bore my beauty in a palanquin--
Her pretty palanquin--this lovely girl,
Cause of my sorrows, tall as a straight staff.
Her litter is adorned with odd designs,
Shining as brilliant as the morning-star,
And like the rainbow glowing 'midst the clouds,
All hung with silk and figured damask-cloth.
And I, like any child, was in despair,
Mourning Hyzyya. Oh, what pangs I felt
For her whose profile was so pure! She nevermore
Will reappear upon this earth again.
She died the death of martyrs, my sweet love,
My fair'st one, with Koheul-tinted lids!

They took her to a country that is called
Sydy Kaled, and buried her at night,
My tattooed beauty. And her lovely eyes,
Like a gazelle's, have never left my sight.
O sexton, care now for my sweet gazelle,
And let no stones fall on Hyzyya's grave.
I do adjure thee by the Holy Book
And by the letters which make up the name
Of God, the Giver of all good, let no
Earth fall upon the dame with mirror decked.

Were it to claim her from a rival's arms
I would attack three troops of warriors.
I'd take her from a hostile tribe by force.
Could I but swear by her dear head, my love,
My black-eyed beauty--I would never count
My enemies, 'though they a hundred were.
Were she unto the strongest to belong
I swear she never would be swept from me.

In the sweet name Hyzyya I'd attack
And fight with cavaliers innumerable.
Were she to be the spoil of conqueror,
You'd hear abroad the tale of my exploits.
I'd take her by main strength from all who vied.
Were she the meed of furious encounters
I'd fight for years for her, and win at last!
For I am brave. But since it is the will
Of God, the mighty and compassionate,
I cannot ward away from me this blow.
I'll wait in patience for the happy day
When I shall join thee. For I only think
Of thee, my dearest love, of thee alone!

My gray steed fell dead as he leaped. O friends,
After my love, he's gone and left me, too.
My charger, 'mid these hills, was of all steeds
The fleetest, and in fiercest war's attack
All saw him at the head of the platoon.
What prodigies he wrought in war's red field!
He showed himself ahead of all his peers.
A blood-mare was his mother. He excelled
In all the contests 'twixt the wandering camps;
I tourneyed with him careless of my fate.
When just a month had passed I lost the steed.
Hyzyya first, and then this noble horse.
He did not long survive my well-beloved.
They both are gone, leaving their last farewells.
O grief! my charger's reins have fallen down.
God made my life a death, in leaving me
Behind. For them I die. Oh, cruel hurt!
I weep for this just as a lover weeps.
Each day my heart burns fiercer, and my joy
Has fled away. Now tell me, O my eyes,
Why shed so many tears? Beyond a doubt
The pleasures of the world will capture you.
And will you grant no mercy? My sad soul
But sees its torments grow. My pretty one,
With lashes black, who was my heart's delight,
Now sleeps beneath the sod. I do but weep
And my head whitens for the beauteous one,
With pearly teeth. My eyes no longer can
Endure the separation from their friend.

The sun that lights us to the zenith climbs,
Then gains the west. It disappears from sight
When it has gained the summit of the vault
Celestial. And the moon, which comes and shines
At Ramadan, beholds the hour approach
Of sleep, and says farewell to all the world.
To these would I compare the lovely queen
Of all this age, the daughter of Ahmed,
Descendant of a race illustrious,
The daughter of Donaonda.

Such is
The will of God, all-powerful Lord of men.
The Lord hath shown his will and borne away
Hyzyya. Grant me patience, O my Lord!
My heart dies of its hurt. Hyzyya's love
Did tear it from me when she left the earth.

She's worth a hundred steeds of noble race,
A thousand camels, and a grove of palms
In Zyban. Yes, all Djryd is she worth,
From near to far. The country of the blacks,
Haoussa and its people is she worth,
Arabians of Tell and dry Sahara,
And the encampments of the tribes, as far
As caravans can reach by all the ways,
All nomads and all travellers, she's worth,
And those who settle down as citizens.
The treasurer of all riches is she worth,
My black-eyed beauty. And if thou dost think
This all too small, add all the cities' folk.
She's worth all flocks and nicely chisel'd gold,
She's worth the palms of Dra and Chaouyya;
All that the sea contains, my love is worth,
The fields and cities from beyond Djebel
Amour, as far as Ghardaya. She is worth
All Mzab, the plains of Zab. She pleases, too,
The people of the Goubba, holy folk,
And friends of God. She's worth all noble steeds
However richly housed--or evening's star
When twilight comes. Too small--'tis all too small
For my sweet love, sole cure of all my woes.
O God majestic, pardon this poor wretch!
Pardon, O Lord and Master, him who grieves!

Just three-and-twenty years! That was the age
Of her who wore the silken sash. My love
Has followed her, ne'er to revive within
My widowed heart. Console me, Mussulmans,
My brothers, for the loss of my sweet one,
Gazelle of all gazelles, who dwelleth now
In her cold, dark, eternal home.
Console me, O young friends, for having lost
Her whom you'd call a falcon on its nest.
Naught but a name she left behind which I
Gave to the camp wherein she passed away.
Console me, men, for I have lost my fair,
Dear one, that silver _khelkals_ wore.
Now is she covered with a veil of stone,
On strong foundation laid. Console me, friends,
For all this loss, for she loved none but me.
With my own hands my love's chest I tattooed,
Likewise her wrists, with checkered patterns odd,
Blue as the collar of the gentle dove.
Their outlines did not clash, so deftly drawn,
Although without _galam_--my handiwork.
I drew them 'twixt her breasts, and on her wrists
I marked my name. Such is the sport of fate!

Now Sa'yd, always deep in love with thee,
Shall never see thee more! The memory
Of thy dear name fills all his heart, my sweet.

Oh, pardon, God compassionate, forgive
Us all. Sa'yd is sad, he weeps for one
Dear as his soul. Forgive this love, Lord!
Hyzyya--join them in his sleep, O God most high.
Forgive the author of these verses here!
It is Mahomet that recites this tale.

O Thou who hast the future in thy hand,
Give resignation to one mad with love!
Like one exiled from home, I weep and mourn.
My enemies might give me pity now.
All food is tasteless, and I cannot sleep.
I write this with my love but three days dead.
She left me, said farewell, and came not back.

This song, O ye who listen, was composed
Within the year twelve hundred finished now,
The date by adding ninety-five years more. [1295.]

This song of Ould-es-Serge we have sung
In Ayd-el-Rebye, in the singing month,
At Sydy-Khaled-ben Sinan. A man,
Mahomet ben Guytoun, this song has sung
Of her you'll never see again alive.
My heart lies there in slim Hyzyya's tomb.



THE AÏSSAOUA IN PARIS[A]

Come, see what's happened in this evil year.
The earthquake tumbled all the houses down,
Locusts and crickets have left naught behind.

Hear what has happened to those negro scamps,
Musicians--rogues, and Aïssaoua.
They spoke of nothing but their project great.
Bad luck to him who lacks sincerity!

On learning of the tour of Rayyato
They all began to cry and run about,
Half with bare feet, although the rest were shod.
The Lord afflicts them much in this our world.
'Twas only negroes, poor house-colorers,
Who did not follow them about in crowds.

The Christian Salvador put them on ship.
One felt his breast turn and exclaimed, "I'm sick."
A wench poured aromatics on the fire,
And thus perfumed the air. For Paris now
They're off, to see the great Abd-el-Azyz.

The Christians packed them like a cricket-swarm,
Between the sea and church, upon the wharf
He drew them, wonders promising, and led
Them but to beggary.

He takes them to
His land to show them to the chief of all
His masters, to the Emperor. He hopes
To get a present and thus pay them back,
Retaining all the money he advanced.


[A] Former student of the Medersa of Algiers, bookbinder, lutemaker, and
copier of manuscripts, Qaddour ben Omar ben Beuyna, best known among his
coreligionists as Qaddour el Hadby (the hunchback), who died during the
winter of 1897-1808, has sung for thirty years about all the notables of
his city.

This lively poem was composed by him on they occasion of the departure for
Paris of a band of musicians, singers, and Aissaoua, who figured at the
Exposition of 1867, under the direction of a professor of music named
Salvador Daniel. The original is in couplets of six hemistichs.

Perhaps they'll show themselves upon some stage
Or elsewhere as his fancy leads. The blacks
Begin to dance to sound of castanets.
The Christians bet on what will happen next.

They say a letter has arrived which says
That they've suppressed ablutions and their prayers.
One has been very ill--"I do not know
What is the matter with me"--but the cause
Of all his illness was because he fell
On the perfuming-pans that they had brought.

For Imam they have ta'en the dancing-girl
Who leads the dances. With her boxes small
In basket made of grass, a picture fine!
Come, see it now; you'd think it was a ghost.

The Christian works them all, and most are seized
With folly. Would you know the first of all?
Well, sirs, 'tis Et-Try, and he is the son
Of one Et-Germezlyya. Never has
He thought of doing well, he lives for crime.

The shrewd "Merkanty" made a profit on them.
Et-Try served them as an interpreter.
The Christian ought to make them this year gain
A thousand d'oros. But I pray to God
To send those two men to the fires of hell.

Now Aly Et-Try is their manager;
He runs about all day, with naught achieved.
The Christian kept them in a stable shut,
And like a squad of soldiers took them out.
He herded them like oxen there, and naught
Was lacking but the drover's lusty cries.

Consider now the plight of Ould Sayyd,
The big-jawed one. He gained ten thousand francs,
And lost them all at gambling. Naught remains
Except the benches and some coffee-grounds.

The leader of musicians, wholly daft,
Whose beard is whiter than the whitest wool,
Has gone to Paris gay to see the sights.
(I hope he'll bring up in the fires of hell!)
If he comes back deceived, at least he'll say
He's been abroad, and dazzle all his friends.

The oboe-player, Sydy Ali, was
Barber and cafekeeper, eager for
A change, and crazy to get gold. "This trip,"
He told his friends, "is but a pilgrimage."
There's nothing lacking but the telbyya.

"I've taken trips before and with good luck.
I was the master, with my art acclaimed.
I was director of the Nouba, at
The court, when Turkey held the reins of power.
I was a court buffoon and broke my heart.
O Lord, why send'st thou not thy servant death?

"I left a workman in my shop so that
I might not lose my trade. I went to show
My oboe, for someone might ask for it.
I used to travel with musicians once."

God bless him!--what a workman. He conversed
With all the customers who passed that way.
He took them in the shop and told his case--
"I'm here for a short while." Then he began
To praise his patron, who, he said, would have
A gift for him.

And his lieutenant, named
Oulyd-el-Hadj Oualy, is a fool
Who thinks his word superior to all,
And that there's no one like him in this world.
When he has gone there and come back again,
He will be perfect. All he contradicts
Who speak to him, and will not let them lift
A finger. Little love he hath for those
Who speak with candor, but he's very fond
Of liars, and always bids them come to him.

"My childhood was so pampered!" he remarks,
And flies into a passion if one doubts.
He only lives on semolina coarse,
And empty is his paunch, all slack and limp.
Yet every day he tells you how he's dined.

"I have discovered," he is wont to say
"A certain semolina lately brought
By a Maltese, who lives some distance off.
You never saw the like. I'm going to have
Some fine cakes made of it, and some _meqrout_."

And El-Hadj Mostefa was dragged along
By all these lies and by the love of gain.
If God had not abandoned him, he'd be
Still making lasts. But 'twas the crowd that led
Him on, and that is how it came to pass.

With them is donkey-faced Hamyda, who
Sold flowers in the market-place. He left
His family no coins to live upon,
But told them only: "Moderate your pace.
I'll buy a house for you when I get back,
And we shall live in plenty evermore."

Sydy Ahmed et Tsoqba timbals had
As big as goat-skin bottles. He desired
To play in unison, but the musicians all
Abhorred him, for he could not keep in time.

The heart of Sydy Ahmed glows with love
For Ayn-bou-Sellouf, who is very fair.
I hope that cares and fainting-fits may swell
Him out, and yellow he will straight become
As yellow as a carrot in a field.

I love Sydy-t-Tayyeb when he sings
And plays the tambourine. Such ugliness
My eyes have never seen. You'd think he was
A clown. He says: "No one could vanquish me
Were I not just a trifle ill to-day."

Qaddour, the little cock, the drummer-boy,
Who hangs on walls and colors houses here
Or tars roofs with his mates, exclaims: "I took
This voyage just to get a bit of air."

Koutchouk stayed here, he did not go away.
Fresh apricots he sells down in the square.
"Repose," he murmurs, "is the best of foods,
And here my little heart shall stay in peace."

When Abd-el-Quader, undertaker's son.
Falls in his fits of folly, he binds round
His figure with a cord and does not lie
Inert and stiff. But still they scorpions see
In Altai's hand, Chaouch of Aïssaoua.

Faradjy--fop--eats fire and fig-leaves now;
The while Hasan the Rat excites him on
To doughty deeds with his loud tambourine.
Playing with all his might and all his soul.
They dragged the hedge-rows green of El Qettár
To pay this tribute to the Emperor.

That fop, Ben Zerfa, who chopped hashish seeds
Among us here, said: "We have had good luck
This summer, and I'm going to pay my debts.
I'll execute my drill with stick and sword
And serve my sheik the very best I can."

If you had seen Ben Zerfa as he ran,
So lightly, bearing on his sturdy back
A basket filled with, heaven alone knows what!
It looked like cactus-pears, the basket closed.

El Hadj Batâta--see his silly trance!
With shirt unbuttoned and with collar off,
And cap on eyes, at beating of the drums,
He shows his tuft denuded all of hair.
Even Móstafa ben el Meddâh desired
To go to Paris and his fortune make.
"On my return," he said, "I'll buy a lamp,
A coffee-tray, and goodly sugar-bowl;
A big and little mattress, too, I'll buy,
A carpet and a rug so soft and fine."
Es Snybla, bellows-faced, who used to work
For our good mayor, off to Paris went
To make the soldiers' coffee. When he comes
Back home again, so much he will have earned.
He will be richer than a merchant great.

Oh, welcome, Sydy Omar! All of Paris
Is charmed to see you, O my Snybla dear!
If he would only go to Mexico,
And stay there it would be a riddance good.

He is a cafékeeper, and his son
A baker. For associate he has
Sydy Aly Mehraz, who does his work
Astride a thorn; he surely doth deserve
Our compliments. All three you see are dressed
In duck, in fashion of the Christian men.
There's de Merzong; the people say he's good,
But still they fear him, he is so uncouth.
Good God! When he begins aloud to cry
In Soudanese, it is enough to make
You fly to the antipodes away.

Oulyd ben Zamoum saw his cares increase--
Since he is a musician, as he thinks,
The world is rid of him. And when he starts
To play the first string of the violin,
The while the Jewess doth begin to sing!

With him two Jews departed, and the like
You never saw on earth. A porcupine
The first resembled, and the other one
Was one-eyed. You should hear them play the lute!

Some persons heard my story from afar,
Oulyd Sydy Sáyd, among them, and
Brymat, who laughed abundantly. And with
Them was the chief of Miliana. All
Were seated on an iron bench, within
The right-hand shop. They called me to their booth
Where I had coffee and some sweets. But when
They said, "Come take a smoke," I was confused.
"Impossible," I answered, "for I have
With Sydy Hasan Sydy Khelyl studied,
And the Senousyya. So I cannot."

Ben Aysa came to me, with angry air,
"The Antichrist," he said, "shall spring from thee.
I saw within that book you have at home
His story truly told." "You're right," said I,
"Much thanks!" And then I laughed to see
Him turn his eyes in wrath.

He said to me
'Tis not an action worthy of a man;
He glared at me with eyes as big as cups
And face an egg-plant blue. He wanted to
Get at me, in his rage, and do me harm.

With him my uncle was, Mahomet-ben-El-Haffaf,
who remains at prayer all day.
He heard this prelude and he said to them,
"It is not an affair." "Fear not," they said,
"For they will put you also in the song."

He's tickled by the urchins' eulogies,
Who praise him as the master of chicane.
"'Tis finished now for thee to climb up masts."
They add: "You're but a laughing-stock for all.
You've stayed here long enough. You'd better go
And teach Sahary oxen how to read!"

When I recited all these lines to Sy
Mahomet Oulyd el-Isnam, who has
To the supreme degree the gift of being
A bore he said to me, "Now this is song
Most flat." The mice in droves within his shop
Have eaten an ounce of wool.

He is installed
Within the chamber of El Boukhary.
In posture of a student, in his hands
Some sky-blue wool. "It is," he says, "to make
Some socks for little children, for I have
But little wool."

When I had finished quite
This dittyramb, and El-Hadj-ben-er-Rebha
Became acquainted with it, he began
To laugh, telling his beads the while, and then
His decoration from his wallet took,
Which had been there enclosed.

My song spread wide.
They found it savory. Respected sirs,
It is the latest Friday in the month
Of El Mouloud and in the year we call
Twelve hundred ninety-four, that I complete
This tale fantastic.

Would you know my name?
I am Qaddour, well known to all the world,
Binder to Sydy Boû Gdour, and attired
In gechchabyya-blouse. And if my back
Were not deformed, none could compete with me.

They told me, "When those folk come back again
Thou'd better hide thyself for fear of harm.
They'll break thy hump and send thee home to heaven."
"Oh, I'll protect myself," I said, "or else complain
To the police."

If I were not so busy
I'd still have many other things to say.
Those who have heard my prattle say it's good;
So say the singers and musicians, too,
Ez Zohra ben-el-Foul among them, who
Pays compliments to me, from window-seat.

He who hath nothing found that's useful here
Will find in this my song what suits him best.
But if he wants to see here something more,
Then stretch him 'neath the stick and give him straight
A thousand blows upon the belly; then
Take him away to the physician, who
Will bleed him well.

And now may hearts not be
Made sad by what I have so lightly said.
I've placed myself among you, so that I
May not incur your blame, O brothers mine.
I've told you my deformity, and all
My miseries unveiled before your gaze.